His Apology Mute
by ImaginationMadeMeLove
Summary: He pressed kisses and noises of comfort. But no words. No, he wasn't allowed to speak. He did not deserve to have her listen to his words. For this was his fault. He caused the pain, he caused the new agony of the world. Of her. In all of Thedas, to think he would have found her. A result of his arrogance, his pride. His stupidity.


Notes: Based of an image by paranoidfactors Work Text:

It was the muffled sobs and grunts that stole him from the fade.

Teeth clenching. Hints of blood. Swollen tongue. Red. Blue sheets, purple. New palette. Rigid muscles. Shaking bones. Spine twisting. Beading sweet, surging tears, blending, into puddles, indistinguishable. Inseparable.

Again. Another Night. Agony.

Veins straining. Head shaking. Cries, muffled by the mouthful of pillow, practically being breathed in.

Moonlight, firelight, making him privy to the pain beside him, Twisted features, utterance, pain, twisting in that beauty only agony can bring. Twisted the curls fall limp in comparison.

Elvish words. Dalish words. Familiarity.

No words.

His Apology. Mute.

Attempting comfort, what can another do when their heart is hurting so badly. Limbs pale like her own, reach for her. He watched, her throat surged, stomach clenching, her body doing anything to get relief. Confused with what happened, why it had happened. Longer, larger hands work the fabric from her mouth. No need for muffling. The need to share her pain. As much as possible. For he too suffered. A different pain.

Hers.

Bright. Sharp and burning. Strange edges painted with hatred. Hatred undeserved. The fall of another life. The curse of the world. So near. The cousin. taints relations, taints bastard son. It spreads. Life leaching. All consuming.

His.

Black. Sludge. Choking veins once filed with virle life and blood. Fault. all blame lies with the ancient mind. The jaded soul. The betrayer. Bleeding dry, the youth of the world.

Traitor.

Them.

Silence.

His Apology. Mute.

Conflicted. A dance. Trepidation. Mutual gain. Mutual pain. Fevered touches and withdrawal. Uncertainty. Deceit. Confusion. Innocence. Distant past. Tender love. New birth. Experience. Colors. Walk. Another.

Can two such exist as one?

A soft body. A strong body. A hard body. A questioning body.

Across cotton, generous with soft touch, he pulled.

Pride.

He pulled, gathering, sheltering, rising from the bed to cage. Protection of sorts. Sobs, now out loud. Sharp against the air. Vocal. Pitch, shattering sharp, grunting flat.  
His heart, thudded unevenly, guilt. This pain, the women did nothing to deserve. She was kindhearted, just and strong. She had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Her efforts, to save another had resulted in only death and the agony she now faced.

No.

Not her fault. Tossing blame. Liar. Shoulder the guilt.  
It was his fault.

He pressed kisses and noises of comfort. But no words. No, he wasn't allowed to speak. He did not deserve to have her listen to his words. For this was his fault. He caused the pain, he caused the new agony of the world. Of her. In all of Thedas, to think he would have found her. A result of his arrogance, his pride. His stupidity.

That glow.

Once familiar. Once proud. Once hope. A different hope.

Now.

Manipulation. Fear. Pain. Confusion and uncertainty did it breed

No. No. There. That sound.

The women. Wrapped in his arms, his shoulder muffling her cries. Stuttering words. Any sort of distraction. Grounding and familiarity. Tonight. Rotten. Then

Sing. Voice strained with pain, frosted with hope.

"when I was a child sat upon my mother's knee  
by firelight she spoke of rights, and ancient history  
and one phrase she repeated though I knew not what it meant  
be safe, da'len, young lethallan,  
may the dread wolf never catch your scent..."

Four more stanzas. Broken off by sharp cries. Escalation in pain. Again.  
She repeated the stanza. The brave, brave Inquisitor. His lips, dry with sleep brushed against her temple. The irony. The bittersweet irony. The song she fell back upon to help relieve the suffering.

Paradox.

Of all things for her to sing, of all the old ways to remember. It had to be that one. Fate was a cruel mistress

Vixen.

It was then. An unfamiliar burn. Familiar now. After thousands of days asleep. Comatose. After judgments and mistakes. Not once had the burn become something of familiarity. But now. With green glow. Couple with screaming pain.

Tears. Unshed. Persistent. Presence.

Yet, now words. Silence. For no words can be spoken. Only the reassurance of embrace. Silent

His Apology. Mute.

post/135752643426/ive-return-haha-moar-solas-so-i-guess-i

Image© .com

Song Stanza(found here): watch?v=x46QHercK4s


End file.
